


Lost and Found

by lifeofsnark



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, PWP, Post-Purgatory Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-05 00:19:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4158456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeofsnark/pseuds/lifeofsnark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're driving along a Maine highway when you find one Dean Winchester fresh out of purgatory. You pick him up and then things get... interesting.<br/>(This was a request: What would a sexual encounter with fresh-out-of-purgatory Dean be like?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost and Found

You’d been driving for about a day, your eyelids slowly becoming more and more heavy, the siren song of sleep calling you close. You pulled to the side of the narrow Maine highway, tires crunching on the gravel. It was dark, the kind of clear night only found far from the light pollution of cities, the deep, absorbing void of light that caused the tops of trees to blend into the navy night sky, a smear of inkier black against the cloudy horizon.

You curled up in the backseat, thinking the silence would be too unnerving- even on a quiet night at home there was the background hum of the refrigerator, the rattle of the air conditioner, the occasional rumble of a passing car. Despite the silence, despite the cramped quarters, you fell asleep.

The sun was barely beginning to lighten the sky- faded to a deep, angry grey- when you were abruptly awoken by something,  _someone_ , slamming into the side of the car. It came again, and you locked stares with two brilliant eyes, glittering with their intensity, wild pine speckled with oak-aged whiskey. It was a man, hair muddy and beginning to curl around his ears, jaw not recently shaven, mud and blood streaked by stripes of sweat across his skin.

You began scrambling around in the seat for something you could use for a weapon; somewhere you’d packed up a filet knife you used to clean fish, that would  _surely_ be better than nothing. He slowly backed away, dirt blackened palms raised, and cautiously motioned for you to roll down the window. You located the fishing knife, crawled into the front seat, cranked the engine (quick getaway, right?) and tentatively lowered the window.

He cleared his throat, a guttural reverberation, and asked in a rough voice, “Where am I?”

His stare was almost unblinking, he was totally focused on your answer, a pilgrim in need of enlightenment.

“Maine. Southern Maine, off Route 4. Are… are you lost?”

You put the car into park, but didn’t yet turn off the engine.

There was a pause, as though he was debating the answer, and then responded, “Yes. Yes, I was lost. Went camping, had an accident and fell off a cliff. Guess the search parties didn’t find me.” He shrugged, the fabric of his ripped and stained leather jacket moving over incredibly broad shoulders.

You looked at him critically. He was holding some kind of weapon, what looked like a bone strapped to a sturdy tree limb, the bone dried and scraped and stained. His boots were worn, the leather warped from being soaked and dried and soaked and dried repetitively. Pants torn, skin dirty, frame lean, his physical appearance matched his story of being lost in the wilderness.

“Okay,” you replied slowly. You kept the doors locked, but moved into the back seat of the little SUV and grabbed a jug of water out of the cargo space. His eyes traced your clumsy moves through the car, pupils wide, arms hanging loose but ready. You held the jug out the window. “Do you need water?”

He took it from you slowly and then backed up again, drinking straight out of the container while keeping an eye on you. Water spilled out of the corner of his mouth and over his jaw and neck, little rivulets washing away a layer of grime.

He put it on the ground near his feet. “What’s your name?” you asked, prepared to google him on your phone.

“Dean Harridan”.

You didn’t remember the name, but it wasn’t like you actively followed the news, most of it was just depressing.

“Okay Dean. You need a ride?”

He nodded, and slowly came around to the passenger’s side door of your little Ford SUV. You stashed the fishing knife in the driver’s door compartment, and then hit the power locks.

You noticed, once he was in car and shifting to grab his seatbelt, that he didn’t smell as awful as you’d expected- a little musty, a hint of sweat, must mostly like wood smoke and the irony tang of blood.

“The closest hospital isn’t for about 65 miles,” you informed him apologetically, looking up from the screen of your phone where the GPS was displayed.

“’M fine,” he said, holding the bone-edged weapon between his feet, the handle resting on his denim-clad calf.

“Dean, you’re covered in blood. You’re probably dehydrated, and God only knows what kind of parasites you’ve contracted.”

He turned his head towards you, jaws set, eye’s glittering like a predator in the night. A chill skittered down your spine, and you wrapped your fingers around the steering wheel.

“I’ve lived with it this long,” he said evenly. “I just want to get back to my brother, back to Sam.”

You slowly pulled off the shoulder of the road, the sky lightened to pale lavender. “Where’s Sam live?”

“I don’t know- we did contract work, so we moved from spot to spot. He could be anywhere right now.”

You dug around in the console, keeping your eyes on the road, and tossed your cell phone into this stranger’s lap. “Here, call him.”

He was already dialing, and even against his ear you could hear the _beepbeepbeep_ of the disconnected number tone. He wasn’t fazed, he just dialed another number. And then another. After the fourth failed attempt he put your phone back in the center, staring out at the pines and oaks whipping by.

What kind of person had four numbers, all of them disconnected? And did contract work?  _Drug dealers. Or mob hit men_ you told yourself. You glanced at Dean out of the corner of your eye.  _He definitely fit the hit man description._

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said placidly, not turning around. You had no idea how he’d caught your sideways glance, but he had.

“Real reassuring, buddy,” you muttered, wondering how much farther it would be before you hit a city big enough to have an Amtrak station. You could drop him off and consider your good deed done.

Sometime after noon, several hours into a tense and awkward car ride, you rolled into a tiny town, barely big enough to have a gas station and a combined grocery/home supply store. While you pumped gas Dean, having been given a twenty) wandered into the little market to pick up some things for himself. He came back with a flannel shirt, deodorant, toothpaste, toothbrush, a razor, and shaving cream. You also spotted a little packet of hostess donuts, and smiled to yourself. If you’d been in the wilderness for months, sweets would be one of the firs things you went for. Right after a shower.

Lunch was an unexpected little adventure. You’d spotted some quick burger place off the highway, and Dean had shown definite interest. You’d been waiting in line for not too long when one of the employees in the kitchen had dropped some pan or tray in the back with a loud crack. A second later you found yourself shoved behind Dean, staring at his broad leather-clad back as he half crouched in front of you, reaching for a weapon that was no longer there. You came forward and smiled at the people eyeing him nervously; wrapping an arm around Dean’s waist you shrugged apologetically and murmured, “Iraq”. The bystanders nodded understandingly and moved off.

You drove through the afternoon before seeing signs for a small campground off the highway. Following the signs you arrived not too long after darkness had fallen, and you smiled ruefully. “I know you don’t want to camp after everything you’ve been through, but it’s what I can afford.”

He nodded, showing interest. He’d slowly perked up as the day waned on, probably readapting to being around other people. “Why are you out driving around camping by yourself?” He didn’t seem to be terribly judgy, just curious.

You jumped out of the car without answering to check into the campground. You collected your map and receipt and headed back towards the sites.

He repeated the question.

“I, uh, I guess I had some sort of crises at the end of school.” You paused, squeezing the wheel a little tighter. “I’d just finished my 3rd year of college, and all of a sudden everything seemed like too much. You have to get internships, perfect grades, recommendations, everything, just to find an entry level position. My friends, they are all off doing their own thing for the summer with their jet setting boyfriends, and I just… wanted out. So I grabbed my tent and hit the road.” Another long pause. “I’ll head back when my savings run out, I guess. I sleep better out here, you know? Wake up with the sun shining through the canvas, not worry about anybody else. It’s just e. It’s peaceful, kind of almost, I don’t know. Kind of pure.”

“Pure” he repeated, nodding. “I understand that. You need to be careful, though.”

His brilliant eyes were dark, serious.

“I am.”

He watched you drive through the state park, winding your way back to the locations with water and electric and tent pads. He helped you set up the small, one person tent, patched in a few places, and stake it down.

You passed him an extra blanket and a rolled up sweatshirt to use as a pillow. “You get the backseat, boyo,” you said, aiming for lightheartedness. He smiled and thanked you, allowing his fingers to brush against yours.

You fell asleep, fishing knife under your pillow, wondering about the stranger with the captivating, haunted eyes.

You woke up to screeching in the night, the ruddy orange glow of fire flickering outside the canvas.

You bolted out into the dark, a cry of warning forming on your lips, but Dean was up, he was up and fighting a creature. It was tall and thin, the paper-like skin stretched tall across the bones underneath. Logic tried to tell you that this couldn’t be real, that it wasn’t real, that this was a man in a costume playing a horrible sick joke, but no- you saw for yourself the disjointed way it moved, the stretched and unnatural length of its limbs, the pale glowing eyes. This was something altogether not human.

Dean was fighting this creature with his bone tool, a can of bug spray, and a barbecue lighter.

“C’mon you fucker, come and get me. I’m gonna send you back to monster land, back to find all the members of your little freak show family I hadn’t killed yet.”

Dean grinned, the orange of the burning branches at his feet illuminating his face, his teeth and eyes glowing red. It was eerie- all day he had seemed a little out of it, slightly out of sorts, but now- now Dean was  _alive,_ he was a the edge of the abyss and dancing along the precipice, more alive now that you’d seen him before. He was challenging death to take him.

The creature paced at the edge of the fire, back and forth, back and forth, before jumping through and lunging a Dean. He calmly stepped back, lit the bug spray into what became a small fire bomb, and threw it into the creature.

The thing, whatever it was, went up like a stack of dry kindling, igniting with a great  _whoosh,_ burning in a way that no flesh and blood should able to.

It shrieked and smoldered, crumbling apart into glowing embers.

You stood at the front of the tent, mouth slightly open, hands still in front of you like shields, eyes unblinking. Dean scuffed his foot through the wreckage of that, that  _thing,_ and then came to you, wrapping an arm around you and gently tugging you back down into your tent. He grinned a bit when he saw the little pile of blankets you slept in, your mobile nest. He settled you settled you down, wrapped you in a fleece blanket, and then waited for you to start talking, crouching in front of you, holding the edge of the fleece tight around your shoulders.

You finally managed to focus. “What was that thing?” you asked, voice detached.

And then you were off down the rabbit hole, into a world of wendigos and demons, werewolves and angels; a world of hunters and monsters and a hell that was very very real. Dean was a hunter, had been since he was old enough to hold a gun, and that’s what he and Sam did; they traveled the country hunting down evil and saving whoever they could.

He’d spent the last year in purgatory, a place between worlds where every dead monster congregated, starving but never dying, hunting but never fed. He’d been the only human, his heart a light in the darkness, attracting the moths of the undead. He’d escaped, him and a vampire buddy, but his best friend, an angel, had been left behind.

The dawn found the two of you sitting in the cargo hold of the SUV, mugs of coffee in your hands (courtesy of your propane stove and percolator), steam rising up to the paling sky.

You felt such empathy for this man, a man who had been lost in a morass of darkness and evil and bloodlust for the last year, separated from his only family, a man who’d been forced to leave his only friend behind.

“Where do you think Sam is?” you asked softly, loathe to shatter the gentleness of this starting day.

“I don’t know. But I need to make a pit stop in South Dakota. My surrogate father built a safe house- well more of a cabin- there, and we can get supplies and go looking for my brother.”

You shoved the rest of the gear into the car and slid into the driver’s seat, Dean already waiting on your right.

“So where are you heading?” he asked as you pulled out onto the highway.

You grinned, thrilling at the start of of a quest, a feeling of purpose. “South Dakota.”

You and Dean took shifts driving that day, fighting playfully over the music played on the radio. Dean had an almost encyclopedic knowledge of every classic rock station across the country; he was always able to find some frequency playing AC/DC, the Doors, CCR, Styx, Guns N Roses and the like. You did what any sane person would do- pretended, for a bit, that none of it was real, that nothing but raccoons went bump in the night, and so you sand along to the radio, screaming Aerosmith and Huey Lewis at the top of your lungs, hair blowing into a tangle in the stream of wind through the open window.

You splurged on a better campground that night, mostly empty this early in the season, a place with clean bathrooms and hot water.

You’d gone into the bathroom to change and brush your teeth, leaving your tent in the very capable hands of Dean- Dean Winchester, a hunter from a renowned family of hunters.

You heard the bathroom door open as you were rinsing your hair and debating the risks of sleeping with Dean. On the down side he was probably suffering from PTSD, he only wanted to get back to his brother, and would almost certainly never see you again. On the other hand, though, he did things to your insides that no man had done before, he walked with an air of confidence that just  _reeked_ of sexual prowess, and he had spent the last year away from the more carnal comforts of the world.

Yeah, you thought, Dean Winchester would be worth it. So very worth it.

The shower turned on next to you, and Dean’s baritone echoed through the tile room, the caress of his voice almost as tangible as the steam curling in the air.

“Whatcha thinking about in there, princess? Been in an awful long while. I was starting to get worried,” he commented, voice overly innocent.

You kept rinsing out your hair, rolling your eyes.

Two could play at this. “I was thinking about you, Dean,” you replied in the same casual tone, acting like you had intimate shower conversations every day.

“Yeah?” His voice rumbled a little lower.

“Oh yeah. Just wondering what you thought about on those nights all alone in purgatory for a whole year.”

You heard the water sluicing to the floor, and imagined Dean run his hands back through his hair, biceps and shoulders rippling under his skin. Your mouth went a little dry, and you paused for a moment, razor halfway up your calf.

“I thought about Sam, and my car. I wondered what he was doing. I would daydream about bacon cheeseburgers and pie. Hope that one day I would be back on the road, windows down, singing along with Sam.

His voice pitched lower. “I would daydream about finding a woman, running my lips over her soft skin. The smell of her hair, throaty moans in the dark.”

You inhaled sharply through your nose and hurried to rinse off, eager to escape from his voice that hinted of pleasures in the night, velvety lips on yours, a predator slowly stalking his selected mate. When you got into the little semi-dry changing area of your stall you wrapped your towel around you quickly, noticing that during Dean’s seductive little speech you’d nicked your knee while shaving.

You’d just grabbed you shirt, towel still clutched tight to your chest when the vinyl curtain twitched back and Dean sauntered in, open jeans slung low on his hips. He came forward, and casually tossed your shirt back onto the little wooden bench. You knee was still propped up from where you’d been soothing lotion into your skin. And Dean insinuated himself against you, his fingers stroking gently up and down, up and down the inside of your thigh. He bent and kissed the little cut on your skin, glancing up at you through his sinfully thick lashes while he did.

He slowly straightened and leaned down into you, hands running up and down your back, fingers dipping beneath the edge of your towel. He didn’t immediately go for your mouth, instead he ran his teeth over the edge of your shoulder, fingers digging into the skin between your shoulder blades, before finally taking your lips.

This was a  _kiss,_ a claiming and branding, the kind of kiss given to a woman by a man just home from war. He sucked your bottom lip between his teeth, soothing the stinging little pain with a lick of his tongue. He abruptly broke away, scooping your clothes and shower bag up and thrusting the ball of stuff into your arms. He scooped up his own clothing before leading you out of the bath house, both of you in nothing but towels. You’d barely made it into the tree line before he was back on you, clothes down in the dust, pushing you back into the bark of a tree, pressed against you from thigh to breast.

He wrenched one arm, then the other, up above your head, pinning them with one broad and calloused hand. You were making eager little noises, humming into  his mouth, opening and closing your fingers in his grip, imagining how his water-darkened hair would feel between your fingers.

He dropped the towel that was pinned between you and moved a possessive hand to your breast, pinching and tugging the already puckered nipple.

Something cracked overhead, probably a squirrel moving along the treetops, but he was brought back to the moment, raising his head from your skin and looking around into the shadowy trees. Easily he tossed you over his broad shoulder and you thrilled a little bit, feeling primitive, this side of Dean calling out to the little part of your brain that remembered living in caves and choosing only the most capable of warriors for a mate. Dean would definitely qualify as such.

He jogged back to the campsite with you bouncing against his back, not acting at all hampered by your weight. He dropped you back on your feet in front of the tent and immediately wrapped one thick arm around your waist, bending you backwards until you were relying on his to hold you up, his lips cruising over your collar bone and neck sucking hard, wet kisses there.

It was delicious and scandalous and hot to be standing in the woods naked with this hunter, this man from whom monsters ran, fucking with him beneath the open sky.

He spun you around and nudged you against the picnic table and you complied with his palm against your back, bracing your palm against the rough wood of the picnic table and obliging when you felt Dean’s knee against your thighs, pushing them apart. Dean curled himself around you, his hands running over your belly and breasts, the skin of his chest flush against your back. His breath against the back of your neck, his nose against your hair.

“So soft,” he rumbled, voice deep and needy. “So sweet.” He bit your back between your shoulder blades, teeth prickling, raising goose bumps along your skin. You heard the rip of a foil packet, one of his broad hands still smoothing over the soft curve of your ass.

“Got this out of your kit,” he muttered, and you could hear the little smirk in his voice, the self-confident swagger.

He stepped back against you, rutting his hardness along your slit, one arm circling around your hips and slipping down to toy with your clit. You moaned, lusty and wanton, grinding back against him. He smacked your hip with an open palm and continued to toy with you, rubbing little circles at the apex of your hungry cunt.  “Uh uh, easy princess.”

You weren’t sure whether the next noise you made was a growl or a groan; it was probably both.

 _“Dean,_ ” you keened, begging him to stop tormenting you.

He groaned too, chest vibrating against your back, one hand still tugging at a turgid nipple. “Normally I’d wait ‘til you were begging, but  _fuck sweetheart,_ don’t think I can wait, ‘s been too long.”

And then he was guiding the broad head of his cock against your entrance, one hand gripping your hip, and he was sliding in and filling you up in all the right ways and you both groaned, sinking a little towards the surface of the table because  _god it was tight and wet and good good good_ and the he was moving into you, fingers creating bruises on your skin, balls smacking into the softness of your ass, your fingers white knuckled on the tabletop. His hips were hard and strong and sure, surging into you over and over, never wavering.

His breathing stuttered against the back of your ear, hot and humid, and he pinched at your hard little clit.

“C’mon sweetheart, come with me,” he growled, and you rolled your hips back into his, clamping the muscles of your pussy tightly around him, urging him to _come come come_ and then he was, his hips bucking, his arms crushing you back against him.

When he stilled, panting, you wiggled against him playfully, feeling his cock soften and slip from you. You leaned back, craning your neck to catch his puffy lips in a kiss, toying with that sinfully full lower lip of his.

“Not bad for your first fuck in a year,” you teased.

He turned you gently in his arms, feathering kisses over your eyes and nose and the corner of your mouth. He brushed your hair back and whispered against the curve of your ear, “Yeah, but what about the next time, princess?”

All of the hair on your body stood up.

He slid down, lips ghosting across your sweat-dewed skin, and sucked a nipple into his mouth, gentle tugs bringing your lust back full force and then some.

Dean slid to his knees and then further, ‘til he was laying on his back, head about a foot from the edge of the table base. He patted his chest, right between his pecs. “Come on up princess, the water’s fine.” He winked saucily and your mouth went dry, knees turning to jello at what he was offering. You stood over him, a foot on either side, and you could see his pupils dilating as he looked up at you. He tugged you down to him, roughly getting your legs bent back under his shoulders and then his hands were on your ass and shoving you up his chest, and you reached forward and braced your hands on the edge of the bench and then  _oh god_ his thumbs were opening you and his nose and lips were buried in your hot pussy, that wicked tongue lapping and flicking.

You cried out, a broken little exclamation of shock and lust and pleasure, and he growled his approval, the vibrations traveling right into your clit. And then, _and then he started sucking._ Your visions fuzzed around the edges, you couldn’t get enough air in your lungs, and then in three sucks, four, you were coming apart above his, pussy clenching, stomach jumping, limbs shaking, and he worked you through it, thumbs stroking your hips soothingly. Finally you collapsed back, head somewhere in the vicinity of Dean’s knees, chest rising and falling as you gulped air. Dean propped himself up on his elbows and looked at you, his mouth still wet with your slick.

“’Bout six seconds,” he commented naughtily. “What’s your excuse?”

You woke up the next morning hot and drowsy, your pillow still warm from Dean’s head.

You sat up and took stock of the situation- you were still sticky and sweaty, you had hickies on the soft skin of your boobs and belly (and probably on your neck as well) you belly and thighs were pink with the scrape of beard burn, and you felt  _fucking fantastic._

When you made it into the bath house, ready for your shower- take two, Dean was in there wiping shaving cream off of his face. He was dirt-free, dressed in his clean shirt, and shaven- he looked a different man from the savage you’d picked up off the highway, and part of you thought you would miss that- the barely restrained wildness of him, how raw and honest and fucking  _hot_ he was.

He caught your stare in the mirror and grinned. Following you into the bath stall he watched appreciatively as you shucked off you towel (rescued and shaken out last night) and stepped under the spray. Your air wasn’t even wet all the way when Dean’s jeans were hitting the tiles and he was stepping under the water with you.

He ran his hands over your slick skin and tugged you close, the hard velvety heat of his erection pressing into your hip and belly. He bent and pressed gentle kisses against each of the bruises and burns and bites from last night’s loving. His fingers tugged at your nipples, and the heat of the water was pleasant against your back.

“This time, “he muttered, punctuating his words with little kisses to your mouth, “This time you’re going to come first.” Heat pooled in your belly at the threat behind that carnal promise. He pressed you back against the cool tile, fingers surprisingly gentle as he ran them along your arms, the shower beating down on your right side.

You slipped out of his grasp and slid down the wall, tile hard beneath your knees, and sucked the head of his weeping cock between your lips. Your hands got involved, water mixing with your saliva, and you twisted and stroked up and down at the base, mouth working, cheeks hollowing.

Dean’s hands scooped under your armpits and tugged you free of his cock in one strong motion.

You pouted at him like a child taken away from her toy. “What’s wrong Dean?” you asked glancing through your lashes, playing coy.

“You. First.” He growled through gritted teeth.

He knelt and flipped one of your legs over his shoulder, your heel bumping against the center of his back. You relaxed as he pressed kisses beneath your navel, slumping against the wall. Then Dean flipped your other leg over his shoulder and you were suspended between the wall and his mouth, your arms pressed back flat against the tile for support.

Dean smirked up at you, only visible from the cheekbones up where he had situated himself between your thighs, and then he was nosing in, licking along your slit, nibbling the lips, plunging his tongue in and out in a wet, dark promise of what was to come.

The tile was cool against your back, his mouth was hot against your cunt, and the shower was still steaming, streaming against your side. Dean refocused your attention, wrapping his lips around your hard little clit and flicking it rhythmically with his tongue. At the risk of unbalancing yourself you released the wall and slid your fingers into the wet curls of his hair, tugging and moaning his name.

He pulled back, resting his chin against your pubic bone, and grinned at you. “What do you want, sweetheart?”

“I want to come Dean, please, I want to come,” you pleaded, carding your hands though his tousled hair.

He winked and went back to work, sucking and nibbling until you were right there on the brink and then he pulled away again, leaving you flushed and keening and begging, bucking up against him.

“What do you want, princess, hmm?” he purred, nuzzling his cheek against your hip.

The water was starting to cool. “Please Dean, please come inside me Dean, _Dean please.”_

He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling at this pitiful thing you had become, his eyes the shimmering green of a jungle cat stalking through the night.

He put your feet on the floor and stood to his full height, more than a head taller than you. He put his hands on your waist and commanded  _jump_ and you did and he had you up and then your pussy was pressed against the smooth skin of his belly and he was lowering you onto his cock and backing you out of the now-cold spray and against the wall, hips pistoning in and out. You tightened your legs around his waist, thighs trembling, so close,  _so close,_ and then Dean took one hand out from under you and tugged your arms up over your head where they grabbed onto the rod for the shower curtain.

“Keep ‘em there,” he growled, and then that hand was between you, the rough fingers winnowing through your folds as he continued to pump in and out of you and everything was Dean- your lips tasted of Dean, the room smelled of water and sex and Dean’s shampoo and even Dean’s sweat was mixed with your own; he was in your pussy and pores and mind alike.

Dean may have been white-knuckling it back into everyday life, startling at forest creatures and glaring at people who walked by too closely and eating like it would be the last meal he ever had, but here, here between your legs he was _home;_ he knew what he was doing and he was doing it right, all those primal instincts honed by a year of fighting and struggling and bleeding spilling over into his hips rutting against yours, your cries and mewls proof of his prowess.

One tear slid down your cheek because it was  _too much,_  too much pleasure and tension and anticipation- you gasped out just  _Dean._ And he heard you and pressed his lips against your collar bone and commanded  _come_ and you did, just for him, the held-off pleasure of the orgasms earlier denied rebounding on you now in a great storm of pleasure that whited out your vision and sucked the air from your lips.

He followed soon after, his hands digging grooves into your thighs, a guttural growl bursting from those gorgeous kiss-swollen lips.

The water was cold but you rinsed off anyway, redressed slowly.

It took you a week to get to South Dakota from the place in Maine where you found Dean on the side of a road, a happenstance meeting that changed your life. The two of you fucked your way across the country, stopping every evening at one campsite or another or just curling together in the back of the car. On the third night Dean kissed and cajoled fifty bucks out of you and disappeared with it into a bar and pool hall. Two hours he came back and your fifty dollars had been turned into fifteen hundred. You sprung for a cheap motel that night and had to leave a big tip for whatever poor maid came in after you.

In the end you and Dean did find Sam at the cabin, and it was a summer you never forgot. In the fall Sam and Dean drove you back to college, determined that you wouldn’t give up your goal of graduation to continue hunting with them. Still, every summer Dean took a week to come find you and you’d break out the tent (a little bigger now, made things a hell of  lot easier) and the two of you would go find some mostly empty national park and spend the majority of the week naked, skin against skin.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading to the end! While I think that in reality Dean would head straight for Sam, this was a fun little interlude to write. Please let me know what you thought!  
> I am also on tumblr (with more fics, etc.) at winchestersandwordprocessors. Feel free to come by and say hi!


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